Just Open It
by steelgray
Summary: Sherlock and John get some last minute Christmas shopping done...What do they buy? And what's this about a foghorn?


**No offense to any Jews, Christians, etc...And thanks for reading! Enjoy!**

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Christmas had seemed to creep up on the flat of 221B Baker Street. The week before the holiday had been flooded with cases, and Sherlock had taken full advantage of the doctor's long holiday from the surgery. It was only natural, therefore, that neither of them had time to go Christmas shopping.

The day before Christmas had John a wreck, the cases had flown by, something about them had been 'Fantastic', but now he wasn't even sure what, the murders and break-ins melding together in his mind.

He had gone out, told Sherlock that he was grocery shopping. Which he was, the flat always seemed to be devoid of food at any given time, but he did have an ulterior motive.

John knew that Sherlock probably knew that he was Christmas shopping, and that it would be no secret to the consulting detective. But it was John's hope, that by coming home late and going straight to bed with his parcel, that he would foil the other man's uncanny ability to tell what he'd bought.

That was the plan, and John knew that Sherlock wouldn't bother with such trivialities as buying Christmas gifts, but little did he know...

Sherlock stood outside the brightly lit shopping center, having paid the cabbie. He had no idea what to do, and no one to ask what to do. John, if he were here, would suggest that he text Mycroft, like he usually told the detective to do when in situations where the doctor himself couldn't help Sherlock. But Sherlock told himself adamantly that he would not text his brother. It was Sherlock's present, and he was going to pick it out.

The tall man entered the fray of the last minute shoppers, wandering around the Christmassy themes of the shoe shop (John really didn't need any more shoes), the suit shop (Honestly, this was more for Sherlock's own enjoyment), and the small booths that lined the stores (Nothing there either, unless the good doctor wanted a belly ring).

Sherlock finally entered the sweet shop, picking out chocolate covered strawberries, cherry fudge, and chocolate chip cookies for his flatmate. He knew that John liked sweets as much as the next man, and would most likely force Sherlock to eat some of them, so he might as well buy something appetizing.

From there, the shopping was easier. He stopped in the stationary shop, buying John a black moleskin journal, having the shopgirl stamp out Doctor John Watson on the front in a metallic, silver print. He then bought a matching black pen to go with the journal, and concluded that he was done, walking out of the building in search of a cab.

Meanwhile, John was browsing the downtown area, entering a high-end mens shop. After a cursory nod at the shopkeeper, he stopped at a display of wallets.

There were all kinds-leather, cloth, clips, and in every colour-black, brown, gray, red, even rainbow. That shade, John was sure, would befuddle the fashion-conscious detective (Though he had worn that deerstalker...)

Even so, John continued to look at the various wallets, knowing that Sherlock's old leather one was getting beaten up. He finally settled on a black leather twofold wallet, having it stamped with Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes in silver.

Moving to the display of scarves, the doctor finally managed to find one that was to his liking-a deep hunter green, woolen scarf, hand knitted in Germany. John picked it up, revelling in the softness of the fibers.

Paying for his purchases, John walked out of the shop, bypassing the businessmen giving him the look. John Watson was a bloody doctor, and if the other hoity-toity men didn't like that he was getting some shopping done, then they could go elsewhere, now couldn't they?

Stopping by Tesco for groceries and more black trash bags, he finally made it home around ten.

Stepping into the darkened flat, everything was normal. Sherlock was passed out on the couch, case file fluttering on his nose as he lay sprawled on the couch. The file on his face fluttered as he breathed. In, out.

John shrugged off his shoes, putting the groceries in the refrigerator (ignoring the questionable looking stomach on the bottom shelf) and taking the other shopping bag to his room and shoving it unceremoniously under his bed; the bag and tissue paper Sherlock's gifts were wrapped in would have to do for tomorrow. For now, John pulled on pajamas and slipped under the covers; snuggling into his pillow and falling asleep.

BEEEPPPP! The freight train roared past him, the conductor shouting at him, somehow knowing his name, "JOHN HAMISH WATSON!"

The doctor flew up, blinking rapidly in the dimness of the morning, "What time is it?" he croaked.

"Five," Sherlock answered cheerfully.

John's eyes adjusted and he groaned upon seeing the foghorn in Sherlock's hand. "Didn't I confiscate that?"

"Minor detail," Sherlock said hastily, already dressed in his favorite purple dress shirt and black pants, dark curls in disarray, "It's Christmas!"

John laid back upon his pillow. "You don't celebrate Christmas!"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not Jewish, John! Of course I celebrate the highly commercialized day we call Christmas!"

John pulled the cover back over his head. "Then that's really too bad. I'm going back to sleep, Sherlock."

The consulting detective glared. "But you're already up!"

"No," Came John's mumbled reply, "Up implies standing vertically. I'm properly horizontal, like the rest of the world at five in the bloody morning!"

Sherlock pulled at the sheet covering John's face, which the latter firmly clung to on the other side. "Jooohhhhhnnnnnn!" He whined.

"No. Call Mycroft."

"Why?"

"So I can sleep."

"Don't wanna."

John didn't reply, and the other man finally huffed, grabbed his foghorn, and left.

John woke up three glorious hours of much needed sleep later, remembering something about a train and Sherlock actually admitting he liked Christmas.

Stretching, he concluded that it had probably just been a bizarre dream.

After taking a shower and pulling on his standard dark wash jeans and Christmas jumper, John walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Sherlock!"

No answer.

Setting the kettle on the stove, John walked into the sitting room, "Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock," John says again, only this time in understanding. "What are you sulking about this time?"

He gets no answer; he isn't expecting one. John smiles indulgently; he doesn't want to fight today, it's Christmas after all.

"I'm going to have breakfast," He says, "And you're going to eat as well. It's been ages since you've had anything, and unless you want your 'transport' to collapse, you need to eat."

He gets no sign of emotion as he walks away, and, poking his head back into the room, he says, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," and walks on.

John hums carols as he fixes them both toast, smearing half his body weight in jam and butter across his piece, spreading Sherlock's with a thin layer of butter. Carrying the toast and tea into the living room, he hands his flatmate his portion and bites into his own, moaning at the taste.

Sherlock's head snaps up a bit at this, and he picks up his own toast, eying it warily before taking a delicate bite.

John turns on the telly, and the two sit in silence, watching the Christmas specials as they eat their breakfasts.

"You finished it?" John asks a half hour later.

Sherlock looked up at his blogger, having finally gotten over his sulk. "Hm?"

"Breakfast," John gestured to Sherlock's empty mug and plate.

The other man seemed as shocked as John. "Suppose I did," he mused.

"Well," John laughed, "That's a first."

"Shut up," muttered the consulting detective.

"Oh, don't sulk," John replied, "Shall we open gifts?"

"If you want," Sherlock said casually, but John saw the way his eyes lit up.

Retrieving the gifts from their rooms, the pair made their way back to the living room.

"Don't deduce," John warned as he handed Sherlock the first bag.

"No promises," Sherlock said as he took the parcel, opening it and pulling out the scarf. "It's perfect, John. Bought it at...hm...Derek's, then?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"They're the only ones in town that carry this particular line of clothing. Rightly so, too, with that hefty a price tag."

"Here's the other one," John tossed the second bag at Sherlock.

"A wallet!" The detective burst out, "I won't be able to take it when I'm disguised for a case, but otherwise it's perfect! Thank you, John."

"Glad you like it."

Sherlock handed John his first gift. The doctor shook the package warily, "This had better not be another hedgehog skeleton, Sherlock!"

"What was wrong with it?"

"It was sad, Sherlock."

"I saw nothing sad about it."

John snorted. "You wouldn't."

"Now, just what is that supposed..."

He was interrupted from his retort when a strawberry was shoved into his mouth, so that all that came out was "Twf mengh, Shaun?"

"My name isn't Shaun," John laughed, biting into the fudge. "This is excellent, though, thank you."

Sherlock huffed after he finished the strawberry, "Fine, then. The other," he tossed the the box at John.

"What is it?"

"Deduce."

"It's a box?" The doctor shook the parcel, "It sounds heavy. A...CD?"

"No."

"Another skeleton?"

"I think not."

"You think? How about a..."

"Oh, for goodness' sakes, John!" The consulting detective had finally grown impatient, "Just open it!"

"Touchy..." John muttered as he tore off the wrapping paper. "This is brilliant, Sherlock!"

"Thought you might need it, for notes."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"What's that foghorn doing in here?"

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**Merry Christmas, dolls! Don't forget to fave and review!**


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